It was characteristic of John Dundas that after hearing Miriam's story he was more than ever bent upon making her his wife. In so far as the chief traits of their respective dispositions were concerned, there was a good deal of similarity between the Major and Mrs. Parsley. Both were "big" in their way of looking at the more serious issues of life; both were inclined to ignore the smaller ones; both were generous, steadfast, and strong. Consequently, the free confession of what her past had been, which Miriam had made to each of them in turn, was attended with much the same result in either case—a strengthening rather than otherwise of their belief in and of their love for her.
And it must be confessed that there are many men who, while believing themselves to be ever so deeply in love with the woman of their choice, would still hesitate at marrying her in the face of the almost certain arrest and conviction of her brother for double murder. But not so this worthy soldier. His only qualm was lest she should on that account refuse to marry him when she was free to do so. And that time seemed very near at hand. News had come from Gerald in Paris.
"I am very ill," he wrote, "in fact, they tell me I cannot last long."
It was a pitiful letter. He begged his wife to forgive him; he had sinned, and sinned deeply against her he knew. Hilda had left him, and he craved that his wife should be with him when he died. As soon as there was the slightest chance of his being able to bear the journey, he was coming to London. Would she receive him? Would she forgive? Would she stay beside him and soothe his last hours?
With such a woman as Miriam there was but one answer to this plea. The tears fell fast as she read.
There was only one thing of more importance to her now. Since it had been made clear to her that the safety of Jabez meant not the safety of Jabez alone, but the safety of John Dundas—meant indeed the upholding of his good name, she had made up her mind to act. If Jabez could be got right away before any official intimation could be given of this new charge against him, she felt convinced of his ability to evade capture. She determined that this must be her work. And it must be done too at once, before he should have opportunity of getting rid of much of the money she had given him.
She knew where to find him. The den of Mother Mandarin was no new ground to her, though she loathed the idea of going there. Strange that the night she chose for her errand should be just such a night as that on which she had met Mr. Barton. The fog was dense, almost as dense as it had been that night, and a thick drizzle was beginning to squeeze its way through it as she left the respectable portico of Rosary Mansions for the abode of vice and profligacy which sheltered her brother. In half an hour she was at Westminster Bridge. As she crossed over, the clock tower rang out nine.
Leaving the main thoroughfare she plunged into the network of lanes and alleys which thread the mass of miserable dwellings lying within a stone's-throw of the river. How familiar were those ways to her even now! How vividly she recalled the days of penury and misery when footsore and in despair she had trodden the stony pavements there! Every corner loomed up a landmark in her mind!
The unclean figures brushing past her in the darkness in no way scared her now. With a light and rapid step she turned down a lane which sloped to the river, and out on to a ruined wharf green with slime, red with dust. A sharp turn at the bottom of the lane brought her into a small court, now a mere vessel for the fog. Here the houses were all askew. Within them the ragged dwellers snarled and wrangled with each other for all the world like jackals over a carcase. Two or three struggling gas lights managed to pierce the murky air. They served to save her from stumbling. Cautiously she groped her way toward an emaciated-looking building of three stories, its roof so pointed and so narrow as to admit of but one window on each floor. And even these were innocent of glass. They were stuffed with rags.
As she climbed the stairs a hubbub of laughter and of shouting met her ears. Foul as had been the atmosphere without it was more foul within. She had to grasp the filthy iron railing, for she felt an oppression at her chest. As she ascended the sounds died away. At last, panting, she reached the top storey. The door faced her. It was heavy and rudely bound with iron. Three times she knocked lightly. It swung open immediately. Mother Mandarin was in her den—or rather in her eyrie.
The place was still the same. She remembered it well—the square room, with its whitewashed walls, discoloured and scrawled over with vile words and viler caricatures; the great open brick fireplace in which, always smouldered a handful of fire; the filthy mattresses laid out at the far end, on which the customers were wont to sprawl and sleep; and pervading all, the mephitic atmosphere illumined dimly by the swinging petrol-lamp set in a bracket over the fireplace. A Lascar and a Chinaman were lying there like corpses, narcotised by the drug, and dreaming God knows what dreams of paradise. Close to them lay a European, sallow-faced and ragged, and restless for his pipe, which was in course of preparation by the lady of the house. She crouched on the floor near a lamp, twisting and stirring the brown confection with a knitting needle, over a clear flame. As it frizzled and spat, she held a long-stemmed pipe for its reception. Though thus engrossed, she raised her grizzled head as Miriam entered.
The boy who had opened the door, sank back into the corner behind it, and rolled himself into a ball like a doormouse. Mother Mandarin rasped out her welcome.
"Eh, lovey, dovey, deary, and is it you, swelley? Oh, I know'd so well you'd come. Didn't I dream of 'awks kerryin' stones last night, an' if that ain't you with money for your poor ole aunty, she ain't the poor thing as wants it. Come, pretty ducky, chuck us the blunt!"
A small worm of a woman this, with a wrinkled face like a baboon, and eyes piercing as gimlets, and a mass of white hair like spun silk. She wore a dress of old green stuff, threadbare now, patched and discoloured. A dingy red shawl was drawn tightly over her red spare shoulders and across her chest—a woman full of evil, saturated with vice, and exhaling it so powerfully as to repel.
Miriam could not repress a shiver, but she addressed herself at once to the business she had in hand, being only too anxious to have done with it and get away.
"I have come for Jabez," she said. "Where is he?"
"Lor' bless you, lovey dearie, he's jes' stepped out for a dram. He'll be back in no time. Wot's it you wants, sweet sweety?"
"Are they awake?" asked Miriam, indicating the apparently insensate forms on the mattresses.
"One of 'em is, lovey, he 'asn't had 'is yet. But he's noo to the pipes, yer see, ducky, and it won't take long to get him orf. Here, dearie, this is as strong as strong."
The man, who had thrown an indifferent glance at Miriam, clutched the pipe and lay back on the bed to indulge in it.
"He'll be off directly, pretty dovey," droned Mother Mandarin, loosening his collar; "he's noo to it."
One of the Lascars emitted a horrible sound and rolled over.
"'E's a dreamin', yuss! I knows they're 'untin' you, pore 'eathen. Don't you let 'em catch you, dearie!"
"What are you talking about?" inquired Miriam, looking at the motionless figures.
Mother Mandarin stoked the fire.
"'Bout them, dovey; I don't know what you calls 'em. When you takes the stuff they comes a 'untin' you. I've met 'em myself in the galleries—no faces, or 'ands, or nothin'; but they ketches you!"
It was all quite unintelligible to Miriam. She noticed the young lad curled up in the corner.
"Who is that?" she asked.
"That, why don't you know 'im? that's Shorty, dearie, m' grandson. The good lady's bin a tryin' to 'elp 'im, but 'e won't be 'elped. Wot's the good o' sarm-singin' when you're 'ungry? 'Ark!" She raised her head and sniffed the wind like a disturbed stag. "It's Jabez' foot, that is!"
Jabez it was. He rolled into the room a good deal the worse for liquor. Recognising his sister he hailed her boisterously.
"You here, old girl? Why, what's in the wind now?"
"There ain't no blunt, any'ow," whined Mother Mandarin; "it's a right down shame as a pore thing like me 'asn't 'eaps of it, 'eaps of it!—poun's an' pence. One as 'ard to git as t'other." A snarl came from one of the sleepers. "Oh, they've ketched you, 'ave they? Why don't yer run now?—there's the road by the 'eath, and the gall'ry in the palace—take which way yer like, but run, or they'll ketch yer!" So did she drone on like some witch evoking a spell.
"Jabez!" Miriam drew him to the other end of the room, and made him sit down. "I have come to warn you. You are in great danger. You must get away at once."
The words sobered the man as nothing else would have done. His face blanched, and his red moustache and beard stood out in horrible relief.
"Danger!" He glanced at the sleepers, at Shorty snoring heavily in his corner, and at Mother Mandarin rocking, rocking, and muttering endlessly before the fire. "We are safe here," said Jabez, "but speak low. What is the danger—that infernal Dundas?"
"Major Dundas knows everything—not only your first crime——"
"First crime! Why, what the devil d'you mean? I only committed one!"
"Oh, Jabez, do be honest with me. Tell me the truth. Surely by this time you can trust me. Is it true that you murdered Mr. Barton?"
"It's a lie—upon my soul, Miriam, I did not lay a finger on the old man—I wasn't even near the house. On Christmas Day I was in London."
"But I saw you at Southampton afterwards. Don't deceive me, Jabez; everything depends upon your telling me the truth. How came you in Southampton?"
"I told you before. But at the time of the murder I was in London. I can prove it!"
"I believe you, Jabez; but you must not prove it; you dare not!"
"By Jove, that's true; I see what you mean. I'll be nabbed for the other affair if I do. But whose game is this, Miriam?—who says I killed old Barton?"
She cast a glance at the bundle in the corner, and brought her lips to Jabez' ear.
"Shorty says he saw you! Hush! don't waken him. You must get away as quick as ever you can. It's your only chance."
He clenched his fists.
"I'm inclined to slip a knife into the young devil as he lies there," he said. "Saw me, did he? Let me stir him up a bit——"
"Jabez, for God's sake don't. You must run no risks. A word now from anyone casting suspicion upon you and the other affair will all come out."
"He knows nothing of the other affair," retorted Jabez, inclined to argument.
"How can you be so mad. What does that matter when the police know? So does Farren; he's been watching you, do you know that?"
"Farren, Farren?—who the deuce is Farren? Some detective bloke, eh?"
"Farren is a spy," replied Miriam bitterly. "He was the man employed by Mr. Barton. He discovered your name, and that I was your sister. He knows everything about you,everything, Jabez. That was how Mr. Barton had such power over me. I was forced to obey him for your sake."
"Well, that wasn't very hard work I reckon," replied the man with an impatient scowl. "So this Farren chap's been watching me, has he? How did you know that?"
"Mrs. Parsley saw him following you after you left me at the flat the other day."
"What!" exclaimed Jabez—"a tall dark chap, wearing a cloak and a soft hat—nasty-looking devil?"
"Yes; that's the man. You know him?"
"Know him? Of course I know him. Why, he's always coming round here for a pipe and a yarn. He's particularly chummy with me too. He told me his name was Garson."
"Did he speak to you that afternoon?"
"Yes; said it was a rum chance we met. The beggar must have followed me. But why? He knows where to find me when he wants me."
"Has he ever threatened you, or tried to get money from you?"
"Tried to get money from me? The chap's not born, my dear, who'd try such a fool's game as that. Whatever put that into your head."
"Oh, I don't know, Jabez; he's hard up and disreputable, and knowing as he does how you killed—"
"Hush! Confound you." He looked round apprehensively. "Don't speak so loud. Look here, Miriam, strikes me you're right. What with Dundas, and the old lady, and this young devil here, I'm in a tight place. I'd better skip while I can. But I tell you straight, if this Farren, or anyone else for that matter, tries coming it nasty with me, I'll do for 'em and then for myself. So you know. I'm not going to be taken alive. Now go on, tell me more about this beggar. Are you sure he knows as much as you fancy he does?"
"Quite sure, Jabez. He knows, at all events, that there's a price upon your head for murder." Then rapidly she told him how Farren had come to be in such a position towards Barton, and how he had always done the Squire's dirty work.
Jabez listened attentively, and chuckled to himself.
"Oh, that was the reason, was it? Now I see it all."
"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Listen to me, Miriam. I know how to deal with Farren and Shorty. Let them interfere with me, and they'll be precious sorry they did, I can tell you. Now then, if I'm to get away, I must have some more cash. I've spent some of that you gave me."
"I expected that," said Miriam, slipping her hand in her pocket. "Jabez, can't you stop drinking even when your life is in danger?"
"Oh, hold your tongue, and don't begin preaching now. How much have you got here?" he said, weighing her purse.
"Twenty pounds—a ten-pound note and gold. It is every farthing I have."
Mother Mandarin's ears caught the clink of the gold, and she crawled towards them.
"Lovey, dovey, give aunty the blunt; she wants 'eaps of it—'eaps of it!"
Jabez took the money from the purse and put it in his pocket. As the woman clamoured on he swore at her. She yelled at him and threatened. With an oath he picked her up and pitched her like a bale of goods on to an unoccupied mattress.
"Get outside, Miriam," he said, "sharp; I'll follow."
Only too anxious to escape from the repulsive scene Miriam hurried down the stairs. Jabez quickly followed, banging the door with such force as to shake the crazy house.
Then bolt upright sat Shorty with a twinkle in his eye.
"So that's it, is it?" he mumbled. "Murder, eh? S'elp me, I'll get some dibs out o' this, or my bloomin' name ain't Shorty!"
With the best part of fifty pounds in his pocket, Jabez Crane took counsel with himself as to which portion of the civilised or uncivilised world he should next honour with his presence. That there was all-round prejudice against his remaining in London seemed, from what his sister had said, tolerably certain. And, in truth, he confessed to himself that even Lambeth had its limitations as a place of residence.
And so, on the following morning, he set out for the office of the Beaver line of steamers, which, as is well known, ply between the ports of Liverpool and Montreal, with the intention of booking a steerage passage in the next boat leaving for that port, and with a vague notion of gradually making his way thence into the heart of the gold-bearing country, about which the more fabulous tales had percolated recently, even to the remote habitation of Mother Mandarin.
His berth secured, Jabez turned his steps towards the Strand, He had not walked far when the thought struck him that he was in a position to afford a penny 'bus. Putting his thought into action he mounted one. At the bottom of Fleet Street he saw something that caused him considerable surprise. There, sitting inside the same omnibus, reflected in a more than usually shiny plate-glass window, was the familiar form of Shorty. Shorty too, then, had been able to afford a penny ride! Strange! It was the second time he had come upon him unexpectedly that morning. At Temple Bar, where he alighted, there was no longer doubt in Jabez' mind. Shorty was following him—had been following him ever since he left Lambeth. Turning suddenly on his heel he made straight for the youth, and seized him by the collar.
"'Ere," whined the quondam Gideon Anab, struggling to get free, "lemme go, carn't yer; I'll kick yer shins to bits if yer don't.
"You young gaol-bird," said Jabez, holding him all the tighter, "what d'ye mean by coming after me like this?"
"I want to tell yer something if ye'll only stop!"
"And must you follow me half over London to tell me something—you—out with it, what is it?"
"It's about Garson; 'e's arter yer!"
"After me? What d'you mean?"
"Step round 'ere into this 'ere back street and I'll tell yer. But yer'll 'ave to give us a quid!"
They moved down into Essex Street. Jabez felt half inclined to yield. But he thought better of it.
"Look here, young man, I should have thought you'd ha' known better than to try your beastly hanky panky business on with me. You'll just tell me anything you know, and I'll reward you afterwards according to what I think it's worth; d'you see?"
"Well, you'll say it's worth a tidy bit I reckon. I'll tell yer this much now; that Garson cove's only 'untin' yer to git 'em off 'is own track!"
"What d'you mean?"
"I mean as I seed quite enough down at that there Thorpe place to string 'im up if I liked to blab. But look 'ere, pal, you've got to treat me square on this job. You be at the shop to-night—there's too many coppers round about 'ere for my likin'. There's one of 'em got 'is eye on me already."
"Right you are—at Mother Mandarin's to-night. What time?"
"Oh, somewhere about eight, pal," and with a whistle, indicative of approaching danger, Mr. Shorty made his way towards the Embankment.
Jabez was both astounded and relieved. At last he began to see Mr. Farren's game. It was running the war into the enemy's camp with a vengeance. But he'd be one too many for him this time. Still, even so, he felt far from secure. He had not seen Farren all the morning, and there was always the possibility he might already have betrayed him. He had more than half a mind to leave Euston by the late night mail. He could do so and still be at Mother Mandarin's at eight.
Meanwhile Shorty made his way along the Embankment at a rate for him prodigious, and in less than half an hour from the time of his parting with Jabez had reached his destination—Great Scotland Yard.
Jabez, having completed sundry minor purchases for his voyage, rewarded himself by dropping into a public-house and drinking (to himself again)bon voyage. That done, he called for his pipe and another bowl, accompanied on this occasion by pens, ink, and paper. He was feeling very nervous about Farren, and had made up his mind that any betrayal by that mysterious gentleman should not go unpunished, even though he, the betrayed, were not there to punish him. With such retribution in view, he ran off a letter to Miriam, the contents of which would be all sufficient to secure unto Mr. Farren the chastisement he would so richly deserve. For the whiling away of the remainder of the afternoon he had to fall back on such attraction as his host was able to offer in the shape of Scotch Whisky.
That such was sufficiently powerful seems proven by the fact that the clock was striking seven, and Jabez was with difficulty restrained from striking the clock, when he picked up his parcels and made for "home." His progress was of necessity somewhat leisurely, and by the time he arrived there most of his "indecision" had passed off. Mother Mandarin was out; and the room was empty save for one man in a long cloak, who sat before the fire warming his hands.
"You?" cried Jabez, as he recognised his friend Garson, alias Farren, and as he very much feared, alias Judas. "You here?"
"And why should I not be?" replied the man coolly. "Is it not my custom to smoke a pipe on occasions?"
"I mean, are you alone?"
"I am always alone," replied Farren in the most melancholy voice.
Jabez closed the door, and taking up a stool sat down near to the man. The glimmering lamp overhead cast its flickering light over both of them. Outside the wind was howling, and shook the crazy window frames. As he looked at his companion, Jabez felt a sense of satisfaction in that he had despatched that note to Miriam—the man was so sinister looking. For a time there was silence between them. At last Farren spoke.
"What has become of our good hostess?" he asked. "I hunger for my pipe. Glorious comfort! What should we poor devils be without it? At least, we have always that—our Paradise if fleeting can be reached for the asking."
Jabez was taking no notice of what he said. He seemed indeed not to hear. His thoughts were concentrated upon himself and his probable fate at the hands of the man opposite to him, had it not been for the timely warning of his sister. At last he had to give voice to them.
"Look here, Mr.—Mr. Farren——"
He looked up quickly at the mention of his name.
"Who told you that?" he asked slowly.
"My sister, Miriam——"
"Miriam Crane, or I should say Mrs. Gerald Arkel? So she told you, did she? And how did she come to know?"
"Her friend, Mrs. Parsley, wife of the Vicar of Lesser Thorpe, saw you with me in West Kensington the other day."
"Mrs. Parsley!—how well I remember her. And so she remembered me? To her I owe my resurrection?—an energetic old lady, Mrs. Parsley, if I recollect rightly. Dear me, how long ago it all seems!"
"You admit youareFarren?"
"Assuredly so—toyou. I would admit anything—toyou. You are to me a cypher, Mr. Jabez Crane; a plaything, if I so wish—for I hold you here—here, in the hollow of my hand. Do you begin to comprehend?"
"Oh yes, I comprehend; you are Barton's spy. You know my secret. But why should you want to betray me? We have been friends. I have done you no harm. You've nothing to gain by it. Why round on me?"
"I have no wish to, friend."
"That's a lie, and you know it. You have been watching me—tracking me here, there, and everywhere, like the dirty spy you are!"
"So you take me for a Judas? Have I asked you for money?"
"No!"
"Then take my warning, friend, and turn me not into an enemy—take further warning from me too, and go. You have the money now. And there is danger, I can tell you—danger for you here!"
"Danger—yes, there is danger, thanks to you. But understand, Mr. Farren, that neither you nor living man ever takes Jabez Crane alive. Oh, I know you for what you are, you fawning Judas. Look out for yourself. If you do your devil's work, and I have to shuffle off, it will not be alone. I have made it all secure. I've not forgotten to execute my last will and testament, and all I have to leave I've left to you. Do you know what kind of legacy it is, Mr. Farren? I'll tell you—the legacy of death! When the end comes to me it will mean your arrest."
"Arrest, friend? For what should they arrest me?"
"For the murder of George Barton. You were followed on that Christmas night, Mr. Farren. You were admitted by that old man into his library; and when you strangled him there at his desk, you were not quite alone, although you thought you were. When I killed it was in self defence. You are a cold-blooded murderer!"
"Fool—fool—fool; three thousand times a fool! to turn on me your friend. I know whence came all this. It is ordained that I should be persecuted throughout my life. But heed now what I say, for I know all. It was the youth Shorty told you this. My hands are innocent of blood, friend. The youth Shorty is your enemy. He is the Judas—not me! He is devoured by lust for gold; this very day he has denounced you to the police. What I say is truth, friend—the time is short for you. Last night in yonder corner he heard all. He knew a deal before, for Shorty has been expert long in crime. You thought he slept. He never sleeps so heavily but that he can hear the chink of gold, be it ever so far away. Last night he heard it. And this day is he gone to grasp it. Your time is short, friend."
With a gasp Jabez raised his hand to his forehead. For the moment he was completely dazed. He could hardly believe his ears; and yet there came upon him the conviction that this man was speaking the truth. Yes; it must be true. He was hemmed in all round. That boy——
"Where is he?" he cried. "Where is he? Let me put hands on him, and——"
"Stop, friend—that way lies the end of all things for you. Go while there is time. I came here after you had left last night. The boy and his grandmother were then in greedy contemplation of the price upon your head. To-day it would be theirs—to-day itmaybe theirs! Go, I say, while there is time."
A fearful gust of wind shook the house. Jabez shied like a frightened horse. There were voices below. His ears were so sharpened he could hear them through the wind. There was he, a rat in a trap. The whole position revealed itself to him in an instant. In silence he clasped warmly the outstretched hand of Farren. It was life or death for him now he knew. Hardly touching the steps he slid down by the railing to the courtyard below. Voices were all around him. He could see two men groping their way. The night was thick and dark. There was a shout, and a figure he well knew threw itself upon him. It was Mother Mandarin. He struggled to get free.
"No, dearie, no; you must stay now with your old aunty who loves you. Shorty and the nice gentleman in blue have something pretty to say to you."
"Let go, you hag, or I'll——" With a wrench and a kick he freed himself, and made a dash for the river. It had been his friend before—it would be his friend again.
Two constables were close upon him. The people, attracted by the noise, were gathering in a crowd. The end of the lane was blocked. There remained only the wharf end free. He could hear Shorty's voice above the rest.
"'E's orf; 'e's orf! 'E carn't git out that way. 'Urry up there, copper!"
Then a policeman's whistle was blown three times. The rain was falling in torrents, and the wind was almost tropical in force. Down towards the wharf tore Jabez, Shorty close behind him. The police were never in the running. As he reached the stream, and saw its surging surface sweeping seaward, for a moment his nerve failed him. Could he hope to live in that seething caldron?
There was no choice—he must risk it.
"'Ere 'e is—'ere 'e is!" yelled Shorty. "No you don't—not that way!"
With a shout he threw himself on Jabez and clung to him like a limpet. There was a wild struggle.
"'Elp, 'elp!" roared the boy.
Cautiously the police crept along the crazy old wharf, which was straining every timber in the gale. The two men struggled on—the one for gold, the other for dear life and liberty. There was a cry of terror and a hoarse roar of rage. Then a thud, and after that a splash, and the inarticulate sounds of two human creatures locked in each other's arms—gone to their death together.
And the voice of baulked humanity was hissed down by the roar of the storm.
Wholly unaware of the fate which had overtaken her brother, Miriam was sorely puzzled how to act on the letter she had received from him the previous evening. If anything happened to him, he had said, it would be through Farren, and she was, therefore, in such event, to give notice to the police immediately that Farren himself was guilty of Mr. Barton's murder, and call upon Shorty to prove it. She would know where to find them both.
The letter had made her horribly uneasy; she had had but little sleep all night, thinking about it. She could only comfort herself with the thought that as no further news had come by the morning post the probability was that Jabez had got clear away.
While she was thus thinking the Major made his appearance. He had never been to see her at that hour of the morning before, and she could not repress an exclamation of surprise on greeting him. Directly she saw his face she knew that something was wrong.
"Miriam, I came at once—I thought you would rather, I hated the idea of your being alone——"
"My God, what is it? What has happened? I know nothing. Tell me."
"You know nothing? Have you not seen the paper?"
"No; what?" she snatched it up from the side-table where it was lying still unfolded.
"Jabez!—he is dead."
"Jabez! Dead? Poor Jabez! he said he would not be taken alive."
"Well, he was true to his word, and something more. He took Shorty with him."
"Took Shorty with him? Major, how horrible! Don't tell me he killed him!"
The Major took the paper from her and read the whole account aloud. She sat there deathly pale and listened.
"Poor, poor Jabez," she repeated when he had finished, "may God forgive him!"
Then she started, as there came back to her mind the letter she had received from him the night before. It was in her pocket now.
"But, Major," she said, producing it, "I got this from the poor boy last night; it is inexplicable now!"
The Major read.
"I don't know that it is inexplicable," he said, "but of course it is impossible to act upon it."
"Why?"
"For two reasons. First because the boy Shorty is drowned, and consequently his evidence could not be forthcoming, even if it were worth anything, which it probably wasn't; and secondly, Miriam, because, terrible as this is, for you to attempt to clear your brother would only be to make it worse for ourselves. Let it die; let him and the whole affair remain in oblivion. As it is it will soon be forgotten."
"You see, Major, I was right; poor Jabez did not kill Mr. Barton."
He did not reply. He could not bear to hurt her; but even in the face of what had happened he found it difficult to remove the suspicions which had for long past occupied his mind.
"Miriam, take my word for it, we shall never know the truth. Personally speaking, my one desire is to keep the whole matter in abeyance. Now that Jabez is dead I am the more able to do that. The fact of his absolute guilt or innocence of my uncle's death need not weigh with me. As for this man Farren, there is no need formeto charge him. If, in the ordinary course of things, his prosecution comes about, I suppose of necessity we shall both be brought into it. But failing that, I feel very unwilling to stir the thing. The atmosphere of it has become repellent to me. Guilty, or not guilty, he may go scot free so far as I am concerned. I think you had better destroy that letter."
"Yes; you are right. It is best so."
At that moment the "cook-general" entered with a telegram. Resignedly Miriam opened it.
"I am here ill. Will you come to me?Gerald.Griffin Hotel,"
"I am here ill. Will you come to me?Gerald.Griffin Hotel,"
she read. The place of despatch was Dover. She handed it to the Major.
"Will you come with me?" she asked.
"You really mean to go?"
"What would you have me do? He is my husband. He is very ill—dying, if my instinct tells me truth."
He walked over towards her writing bureau and picked up a railway guide.
"Perhaps you are right," he said. "There is a train at twelve-fifteen. We have time to catch it if you get ready at once."
Without a word she left the room. She guessed how it was. Gerald had taken the journey when he was not in a fit state to travel, and on arrival at Dover had been obliged to take to bed.
This was exactly what had happened. Even in the comparatively short space of time which had elapsed since he had left her, the life he had lead had been more than enough to set up the disease to which he had always been predisposed. In the face of all his doctor's orders he had insisted upon coming to England as soon as ever he had regained sufficient strength to enable him to get about. And the result was as they had predicted. He had caught a severe chill which, on arrival at Dover, had forced him to succumb. Within forty-eight hours he was in the throes of an attack of double pneumonia.
When she saw him first she hardly recognised him. All the youth seemed to have gone from him. Around the mouth, where had always lurked the sunniest of smiles, were now nothing but the heaviest of lines. His cheeks were sunken and his hands like claws. The hectic flush of fever was on his face.
He reached out to greet her as she entered the room, and a faint expression of pleasure parted his parched lips.
"Miriam—forgive!"
She laid her cool hand on his brow.
"I am here, dear, to show that I forgive."
"Till the end?" His eyes sought hers imploringly.
"Till you are quite well," she said.
"Till the end," he repeated sadly. His eyes closed and he dozed off again, his hand clasped in hers that he might keep her by him. For ten minutes she sat thus. Then, seeing that he slept soundly, she quietly rose to go to her room. As she left she called the nurse aside. She wished to see the doctor when he came. He was expected early in the afternoon.
When she saw him—he was a young man and fully sensible to the charms of a pretty woman—she had no difficulty in getting her own way; it was that she might undertake at least a portion of the nursing. And so for days and weeks she came to that melancholy bedside, and tended him with all the endless patience and unswerving devotion which were so much a part of her nature. And his attitude toward her was that of a child to mother rather than that of husband to wife. So long as she was beside him he was at rest. And from her all sense of wrong, of anger, and contempt had passed away, and had given place to a great pity in her heart.
"I am afraid we must be prepared for the end in a very few hours now, Mrs. Arkel," the doctor said to her. Gerald had had a more than usually restless night.
"Is there nothing to be done?—no one we could get from London?"
"Nothing. He is beyond science—beyond drugs. An attack of this kind is invariably fatal to men of his constitution and habit. He has lasted longer that I thought. It is only right you should be prepared for the end."
Still Miriam kept a smiling face always to him. Wherever she went he followed her with his eyes; when he could he clasped her hand in his as if to save him from the deep abyss on the brink of which he knew so well he was. He seemed always to wish to speak to her, and in between his short snatches of sleep he would murmur all the time:
"You said I would die, Miriam, when the money came to me—if only I had held by you—but I neglected you—I left you—oh, Miriam, how could I leave you—Hilda never loved me—I'm afraid the estate is dipped, dear—Dundas'll soon put that right—why didn't he come to see me?—might have come to a poor dying chap——"
"He did come, dear; he is here now. Would you like to see him?"
"No—I want you—only you. Don't let anyone else in, Miriam. Just our two selves. You forgive my leaving you, dear? Ah, yes, you were always good—read to me, Miriam—I never was a good chap—but there's some of the Bible you can read to me."
Then softly she read to him from the New Testament all the loving promises of Christ, and the pitiful tenderness of the gospel.
"Just turned thirty, and to die!—I'm not sorry though—God won't be hard on me will He, Miriam?—it was in my blood——!"
"God will take you to Himself, Gerald dear; He is all merciful."
"Ah, well, I am the work of His hands—clay in the hands of the Almighty potter. I have cracked in the furnace of prosperity. Hilda never loved me! Never—never! I gave up all for her. How good you are, Miriam? You will marry Dundas, won't you? and live in the old place—good chap Dundas. He'll soon get things to rights—and poor Gerald will be forgotten——!"
"Never by me, dear."
"Hilda will—Hilda never loved me—never—never——"
That was ever the burden of his cry. Hilda had left him to die alone—had taken all and had given nothing in return. For twelve hours Miriam never left his side, and when the end came she was there to close his dying eyes.
Towards dawn he died. Worn with watching she still held his hand in hers, and soothed him until she saw the change in him which no one could mistake. She rang the bell and sent for the doctor.
The dying man opened his eyes and looked at her and smiled.
"Miriam—Hilda!—ah, poor Hilda—I was bad—good-bye, Miriam—Hilda!—Hilda!"
Hers was the name last on his lips. But Miriam did not think of that. She knelt by his death-bed and prayed.
"Gentleman below named Farren to see you, sir!"
Never in his life, it is safe to say, was Major Dundas more surprised than when his orderly thus announced the presence in Brampton barracks of the person last credited with the despatch from this world of the late Mr. Barton.
"Farren?" he repeated. "Sure? What's he like?"
"He wears a long cloak and a soft felt 'at, sir."
"Show him up, then—and look here, keep your eye on him!"
"Yes, sir."
"If it's the same man he's got the cheek of Old Nick himself," muttered the Major; "what the deuce can he want with me? Seems my fate to be lugged into this business."
The Major was in mufti. On his left arm a broad band of black cloth was the outward and visible sign of mourning for his recently deceased cousin. He had undertaken for Miriam all the details of the funeral—the conveyance of the body to Lesser Thorpe and the interring of it in the family vault. And this he had done with all due respect and solemnity. But in his heart he was obliged to confess that the events of the past few weeks had caused him in every way the greatest possible sensation of relief. In the first place Miriam's brother was no longer in this world to pester her or anyone else, and he had been the sort of man from whom there could be no feeling of riddance on this side of the grave. For Gerald he was sorry—he pitied him just so much as one pities any man who is the victim of his own mad folly. But his death could be counted a loss to no one. On the contrary, it was bound to bring with it a distinct feeling of relief, because the Major was no hypocrite, and he never attempted to disguise from himself that the one object of his life now was to make Miriam his wife—and had indeed been so for long past. Her absurd scruples on the subject of divorce he had felt no sympathy with—the most he had been able to do was to respect them. She having returned to the flat, he had seen very little—all too little of her recently. But she had not been alone, for the good heart of Mrs. Parsley had gone out to her in her trouble, with the result that the vicar's wife had taken up her abode at Rosary Mansions during those first weeks of her widowhood. And so were matters progressing as comfortably as the Major could desire when the announcement of this man Farren's presence came as a cold blast upon him.
He put aside the paper he was working at and waited. His welcome was not a cordial one. But at this his visitor was wholly unmoved. He sat down uninvited and looked calmly at his host. Indeed, he forced Dundas to open the ball.
"Well, Mr. Farren, what do you want with me?"
"Can you not surmise that, friend, without my telling?"
"Damn it, sir, don't callmeyour friend, or you'll find I'm a precious unpleasant one."
"It is a mere figure of speech, friend. The world is cold—there is no friendship—no love. I come not for love but for money!"
"What—confound you, man, what do you mean?"
"The meaning is simple, Major Dundas. I am no extorter. I come to plead your sympathy—to plead it not, I trust, in vain, when you have heard my story, for there are many things about which I alone know the truth. I alone know who killed your uncle!"
"Well, that you certainly should from all accounts. But upon my soul I marvel at your brazen impudence in coming here to tell me so—and I suppose to excuse yourself. Doesn't it strike you that I have been unusually forbearing in taking no part against you!"
"I am no slayer of men, friend. I did not slay your uncle! I come to tell you who did."
"You'll have to do more than tell me, I fancy, before I believe you."
"First let me state for what it is I sue. It is small, friend, what I ask—sufficient only to restore me to the land whence I come; a mere matter of a hundred pounds."
"I—Iam to giveyoua hundred pounds!"
"'Twill rid you of me for ever, friend—'twill rid you of all mention of the past. It is not a large amount."
The Major scrutinised him closely for a moment. He began to think the man was queer. But there was something about him which compelled attention. In the first place he bore the stamp of breeding—in the second he piqued curiosity. The Major came to the conclusion that whatever he was, he was no ruffian.
"Go on," he said, "let me hear your story. But look sharp about it."
He fixed his dreamy eyes upon the Major for quite a minute before he began.
"Years ago, friend, you had an aunt, Flora Barton. You will have heard of her. I loved her. She was to me the sweetest soul on earth. No dolphin in Galatea's train more blithe and gay than I, who thought to call her mine. But, alas! the goods of this world I had not, though she was blest with them, and more. Your uncle George, whose death we now deplore, swore she should not be mine. He exhorted me to withdraw. But I loved truly and deeply, and by my love I was being consumed beyond all heed of lucre; so that his exhortations were in vain—in vain, friend, in vain. And as he saw that this was so, he changed, and was to me as a true friend. And I rejoiced within me then, and was filled with joy. Ah, friend, what days were those! What happiness was mine. But all too soon the glory of my day was clouded and I fell. Yes, fell to crime. Like Orestes, I had appealed to Pythias, and Pythias had spurned me. I knew not where to go for money, for I had gambled, and I owed a goodly sum. And so I did that which has cursed my life—I wrote another's name—in the language of these days, good sir, I forged. I forged! I forged! I forged the name of George Barton! No sooner had I done the fatal deed than I saw what it meant, and regretted it a thousand times. But I could not giveherup. Together we took wing and fled. He followed, and my freedom was vouchsafed to me on one condition—that I gave up my love. Alas, what could I do? And so we parted, my love and I—she to the home whence she had come, there to join her life in time with one Arkel, the father of the lad who but a few short weeks ago died—I to the far-away land chosen for my exile. But she, the flower of flowers, still remembered our love. She avenged our parting; for she wrecked the life of him who had parted us. She came between him and his love. She ruined him—devastated his life so that he was stricken with disease of the brain, and suffered some of the tortures which I too have suffered."
"But much of this is ancient history to me," interrupted the Major. "Get on to the gist of the thing."
"May I not tell the story of my life in my own way? To Australia then I went, and there for a score of years I stayed. And as with time the wound in my heart healed I married, and children were born to me. Then death came, and my wife was taken from me, and I put the past behind me and returned to this land. But in that whence I had come I had found a way to Paradise—a way to drown the past and revel in the present. I had learned to love the poppy. It became the emblem of my later life—the anodyne of every sorrow. I sought it here, for life without opium was no longer possible. I found it at the hands of one Mother Mandarin——"
"What, you too, then, know that old hag!"
"Beneath her roof I have dreamed the sweetest dreams, beside her—a very Jezebel—I dwelt for long in Paradise. But now I am in Hell. They chase me constantly, relentlessly. But so far They have not caught me. Horror! when they do! Your uncle, too, loved his opium. We met there, and I came to understand him more. Twin sister to his love for opium was his love for crime. He had a passion for its mysteries, and lacked only the courage of a past master. He probed in the depths—together we probed in the depths—he paying me. I was a seeker of criminals for him. It was my work to hunt them out and bring them to him as to one who was an appreciator. For the fulfilling of my task he paid me three hundred pounds a year. He used to say he longed to kill—to be a spiller of human blood."
"Man—you're mad!"
"Small wonder if I were—but I am not. These things that I tell you are true, friend. Your uncle was the criminal's comrade. He sheltered him and paid large sums of money to his kind. I was his tool in this as all through life. At Lesser Thorpe I used to visit him. I was there that Christmas night when Nemesis o'ertook him, and he met with death at the hand of one of those whom he so sought. No soul knew I was there. But I knew all—of Miriam Crane—of Jabez Crane—of Gerald Arkel, aye, and of yourself. For I had been set my task and had fulfilled it, and the secret of Miriam Crane's past life was in my keeping and in my master's. I knew her brother for a murderer—he had killed a sergeant in your regiment."
"I know—I know all about that—go on."
"Softly, friend. As he had held me for so many years so did Barton hold Miriam Crane—in his power—in the hollow of his hand. So did he hold Jabez Crane, who too loved the drug. We met at Mother Mandarin's. And now I approach what you would know. The grandson of the woman Mandarin was a thief—an expert criminal. He heard speak of Lesser Thorpe, and Barton, and Jabez, and his sister. And he took himself down there to find what he could find. He made excuse of going at Jabez' bidding to warn his sister he would come. His name was Shorty. He was the genius of evil. He was the accomplice of Jabez in many crimes."
"I know they tried to rob my uncle one night on Waterloo Bridge," put in the Major, who, in spite of himself, was becoming excited. The man's narrative, strange as it was, was beginning to convince him.
"I watched this sinful youth, for I knew his lust for gold. On Christmas night I took me to the Manor House to warn George Barton of that which I knew threatened him. But, as I learned, all too late, Shorty followed me. He concealed himself behind a buttress near the library window and heard our converse there. And when I left he entered and hid himself away, for I left and entered always by the window on the terrace, so that no soul should know."
"But how, man?—how could he get into the library while you and my uncle were there without your seeing him?"
"In this way. Your uncle, deep in converse with me, came to the end of the terrace. He was wont to walk out there. It was then the lad got in. When your uncle, unsuspecting of evil, returned, he returned alone and to his desk. I took my way down the steps into the village whence I had come. Before I had left him I had warned him that with Shorty in the village he knew not the hour he might be robbed. And he meant to act next day upon my warning. Then the boy came from his hiding-place and demanded money. Had I returned with your uncle the lad would have remained there till I left. Your uncle did not heed his demands, but cried for help. That cry it was that killed him. The lad threw himself upon him to silence him. He clutched at that old throat and clutched too hard. When he clutched no more your uncle was dead! Here, friend, is the verification of what I have told you."
He produced a dirty sheet of paper from his pocket. On it were written but three lines. But they were all sufficient to condemn the man who put his name to them.
"But the creature surely could not write," objected the Major.
"Mine is the writing, friend; his the signature. 'Twas Miriam Crane taught him to write that. Show it to her."
"But how did you get this confession out of him?—it's difficult to believe——"
"It was difficult to obtain, friend. No one but myself could have procured it. Myself alone did that boy fear. I had broken his nerve. In drink one night, not many weeks ago, he came to me, forgetting himself so far as to threaten me and demand of me money, accusing me of having killed your uncle. At once I knew then it was he who had killed him. I had suspected him for long. He told me he was there and had seen me in the library. But I was not to be thus threatened by this youth. We were alone. It was night. I locked the door and taxed him with the crime. He would not confess. But I knew the lad; I alone knew Shorty and the only way with him. In the grate there burned a fire, and by the hearth a poker stood—'twas easy made red-hot, and——"
"Good God, man, don't describe to me your loathsome horrors. Have done with your story and go."
"Well, that was how, friend, I came by this confession. I told him while he lived I would not use it for his undoing. In truth I could not, since my own past is not clean. But now that he is dead he cannot suffer in this world for his crimes. I alone am left. Your uncle ruined me, friend. I hated him. All my life I hated him. He sapped my soul; he was a vampire. I ask you now to help me to end my days in such peace as is left to me. I am without money. I wish to leave this country and return to the land of my exile. The Mark of the Beast is on me, and I am getting old. My end will come soon now, and I shall join your uncle, and Jabez Crane, and Shorty, and all our other kindred souls in Hell; down there, deep down in Hell. Already I have tasted of its fires—but they have not caught me yet; They chase me all the time, but They——"
The Major stopped him.
"If I give you money," he said, "I give it you in this way: fifty pounds and your passage to Australia. Never again set foot in this country. I may be wrong; but I believe your story, and I would wipe out once for all the memory of it. I am sorry for you, Farren. Give me some address, and what I have promised you shall follow. But remember if I catch you in this country that's the end of you."
"Thanks be to you," he said. Then he scribbled a few words on a piece of paper, and took up his hat and cloak and vanished.
John Dundas was as good as his word, and within a fortnight of his visit to Brampton the unhappy Farren was on board an Oriental liner bound for Melbourne.
As the Major read his name in the passenger list, he breathed a sigh of relief. For with him disappeared all record of the past. He felt convinced the creature—queer in the head as he undoubtedly was—had told him nothing but the truth. His life story was indeed a pitiful one, and the Major would not but admit that there was something of retributory justice about the fate which had overtaken his old uncle. For that he had met his death by Shorty's hand there was not a doubt. Miriam had been shown the signature appended to those three lines of confession—confession absolute and unqualified—and she had recognised it instantly.
There remained no doubt in the Major's mind. As he had told Miriam, the whole affair was horribly repellent to him. The remotest connection with such men as Jabez, Shorty, and Farren ran counter to every instinct he possessed. He alone among his contaminated stock recoiled from the merest contact with the morbid. Gerald, in his bouts of alcoholism, had always shown that he was attracted in that direction. Even when most himself that side of him had been plainly apparent to any keen observer.
And so the Major thanked his stars that things were as they were. His hundred pounds had been well spent, indeed if it had purchased in the future complete immunity from all reference to the terrible past. So far as Farren was concerned he felt perfectly safe. It was not difficult to foretell his end. It would be speedy. And the Major knew enough of Melbourne even to localise it with some degree of accuracy. That fair city of the south possesses in its heart the foulest opium dens outside of China. It would be in one of them—in that fœtid artery named Little Bourke Street—that Farren would die; and with him would disappear the last of what the Major was wont to refer to in his own mind always as the Lambeth gang.
From time to time he caught a glimpse of Miriam; anything from an hour to two hours constituting merely a glimpse in the eyes of the Major. Each time he told himself she was more beautiful than before; and for the first time in his life a year seemed to contain at least twenty-four calendar months; and all the rifle practice or tactical manœuvres in the world were of no avail to shorten it. Slowly, wearily, it dragged itself along, with now and then a spurt on such days as could furnish him with reasonable excuse for a run up to town—town being bounded on the east by Addison Road and on the west by Hammersmith.
In Mrs. Parsley, had he only known it, he possessed the strongest of allies. If he had needed anyone to plead his cause, he could not have chosen a better.
"My dear, I am just waiting for the day that shall see you Mistress of the Manor House. Won't that be a knock-me-down-staggerer forher?" Such was Mrs. Parsley's leit-motive now, the "her" having, it is scarcely necessary to say, reference to Mrs. Darrow.
"But, my dear Mrs. Parsley," Miriam would remonstrate, "he hasn't——"
"Oh, don't tell me hehasn'tif he hasn't, you've only to hold up your little finger for him tohave. Why any fool can see he just worships the ground you tread on—not that I ever believe altogether in that sort of thing myself; but my experience of them is they're all the same. It's either that or nothing. Take my word for it, my dear, unless a man's abject, he's not in love, and unless he's in love, he'll never make a good husband. Now the Major is in love—he is abject, horribly abject. And of all the men I've known he's the most promising as a husband. I do believe he is a thoroughly good fellow."
"I know, I know, my dear Mrs. Parsley; there is no better fellow in the world. But you seem to take it quite as—well, what shall I say?—quite as necessary to my existence that I should have a husband. Does it not occur to you that I might like a little freedom—that my first experience of matrimony has not been altogether encouraging?"
"Freedom! Encouraging?—rubbish! What does a woman want with freedom, except to get into captivity again? As for encouragement, no one ought to require much encouragement to grab a good thing when they see it. John Dundas, matrimonially speaking, is a good thing, and if it weren't for the Reverend Augustine, I tell you candidly I'd soon show you I mean what I say!"
"Oh, my dear friend, this love, this love!" sighed Miriam, "this keep the world a-whirling!—well, I suppose you're right. You know it is not that I underrate Major Dundas' good qualities. I do not. I know he is a good man, and I like him and respect him more than I can say; but—but——"
"But—but—there you go! you're thinking about that wretched past of yours again. Well, tell him, tell him everything; he'll think none the less of you for that!"
"Indeed I have; he knows everything of my wretched past. It is not that——"
"Well, what is it then?"
"Oh, I don't know—let us leave it. It will settle itself I expect if it's meant to be settled. Meanwhile, we're quite happy, you and I, aren't we?"
"Oh yes, we're very happy, Miriam, with our work. That reminds me that old Chinese Mandarin creature's dead at last."
"Really? Poor old thing! When did she die?"
"Yesterday morning. The place is becoming quite respectable now—a veritable land of promise. And that reminds me again I have to go down there in the morning to finish up one or two things, and in the afternoon, dear, you know I am going back to Thorpe. Augustine's got a cold, and you know what Augustine is with a cold!"
"Poor Mr. Parsley—he is very good. I sometimes think I should like to change places with you, and go down and look after him while you're looking after Lambeth," said Miriam, just to see how she would take it.
"Indeed, my dear, you'll do nothing of the kind. You'd spoil him altogether, that's what you'd do. I understand Augustine and he understands me. He'd break out in all sorts of fresh places with any other treatment than what I give him. Besides, he likes to be alone—he always says I'm the only woman he could stand. Not that he means it, you know—he doesn't. He thinks all women a nuisance, except when he's ill—then he's glad enough to have 'em, I can tell you. Now, dear, I must really go. I shall have tea at the Stores. Who's that at the door I wonder?—let me get out of sight. Good-bye, Miriam dear."
She kissed her and hurried off. They were in the dining-room. Miriam remained where she was, awaiting the announcement of her visitor whoever it might prove to be.
The name brought in to her was that of "Mrs. Latham."
"Mrs. Latham?" she repeated to herself. "I don't know any Mrs. Latham."
She went into the little drawing-room. Her visitor was closely veiled and in the deepest black. She looked at her.
"You don't know me, Miriam?"
"Hilda! Is it you? Mrs. Latham!—but—-"
"Yes, Miriam, I am Mrs. Latham. But my husband is dead. He died only a month ago!"
"It is only a year since Gerald died."
"Poor Gerald—did he forgive me for leaving him?"
"He never forgot—I cannot say whether he forgave. Your name was last on his lips—not mine!"
"My name? And you were so good to him? Miriam, willyouforgive?"
"I—yes, I forgive. It was him you wronged more than me, for I could guide my life—he couldn't. He was weak, helpless—little more than a child. And you led him further astray, Hilda. And yet he loved you as he never loved me, even at the end."
"Oh, Miriam, you don't know what I've suffered. I am not so wholly to blame as you think. You don't know what my life was—from the merest child I was neglected. I was never taught to care save for myself. I was pampered, spoiled, allowed to run utterly wild. My only teaching was to put a value on myself—to see to it that I secured the biggest prize in marriage. You cannot afterwards undo the evil done by an up-bringing such as mine. And my instincts were never for good, Miriam. I secured through John Dundas all that I craved, riches, position, ease, gaiety. And when I lost them, remember, I lost what was to me all. Gerald loved me I know; yes, and I loved him as much as it was in me to love any man. I could not resist the temptation that assailed me. But I was prepared to do my duty by him, Miriam. I would have gone on loving him. I would have been with him at the end—"
"Why, then, did you leave him?"
"Because he forced me to. He drank so horribly. He was like a madman most of the time. He gambled recklessly—more than once he struck me. I stayed by him as long as I could, and then one night he treated me so cruelly I had to leave him. I was afraid for my life. I had already met Mr. Latham. He fell in love with me, and he urged me all the time to leave Gerald. But I would not have left him, I swear to you, if he had not treated me so violently. Mr. Latham was rich I know, and Gerald then had little money left. But it was not that that took me. I was in daily, hourly terror of him. Oh, Miriam, you cannot imagine how he was. That night I tell you of, I left him. I went with Mr. Latham to Italy, and there we were married. He was more than good to me, far better I know than I deserved. I was prepared to make amends for my past life, and at least to be a good wife to him. But fate determined, I suppose, that I should suffer, for he died—died when we had been married only a few months. And now I am alone, and oh, so wretched, Miriam, so terribly unhappy."
She burst into tears.
"Hilda, don't—I, too, am alone. Believe me, I forgive you if it is my forgiveness you would have. You have been wrong; but I was wrong, I think, in the beginning, too—towards Gerald. I ought to have left things to take their chance. But what I did, I did to save him. For that I was punished. God knows what I have suffered. But, come now, even though you are alone, you have your father and mother——"
"My father and mother! Don't name them to me. I hate them. To them I owe the whole failure of my life. They had no right to bring children into the world, and allow them to grow up weeds. I wish never to see either of them again. No, I am going back to Italy. I shall find some niche to fill there I suppose. But I could not stay here. All I wanted was to know that you forgave me. You have been so good, Miriam, and if you forgive me, I can bear the rest. And, Miriam——"
"Yes, Hilda."
"You will marry John Dundas? Don't be angry with me, but if you are happy, I should feel my life was easier. John is good, Miriam, he is one of the best of men—I never deserved him. You do. Let me feel that you won't—that the past won't stand in your way. He deserves to be happy."
"He has been very good to me, Hilda, very kind. I know what you must feel. Let us both try and forget."
"Say again that you forgive me, Miriam."
"Freely, Hilda. I forgive."
"Good bye. You will write and tell me—any news?"
"I will write, Hilda; good-bye."
As she left the room Miriam could bear up no longer. She threw herself on the sofa, and cried as if her heart would break.
Six months later, in the lovely summer weather, Dundas and Miriam were wandering through the gardens of the Manor House together—man and wife. In the little church over yonder, fraught to Miriam with so many memories, they had been married by the Reverend Augustine, now four months ago. And even Mrs. Darrow, open enemy though she declared herself, had not contrived to spoil their peace. Dicky, it is true, had been permitted to attend the wedding of his Miss Crane, but Mrs. Darrow herself had remained adamant, and stayed at home to nurse her rage and show her great displeasure.
And with the glorious peace and rest which had now come into her life, Miriam felt at last her night was over—the heavy shades had lifted, and the dawn was brightening to a golden noon. Her faith in God was justified to her even in this world.
Her husband turned, and asked her what he never tired of asking:
"Are you happy, Miriam?"
"Happy, dear? So happy!—happier than I have ever been or ever thought to be!"